Tied Up in Knots
Title: Tied Up In Knots
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG
Summary: A feverish Dean gives Sam all he can handle.
Word count: 3770
Warnings: Very vague hints of a possible past sexual assault. Post Hell Trauma.
Author's note: Written for this year's summergen challenge.
Sam’s a smart guy. Well trained describes him pretty accurately too. In fact, one of the first things his father ever taught him was how to turn a bad situation into a learning experience. Sam winces as the developing shiner around his left eye gives a vicious throb. What he’s learned from this particular bad situation is that when his brother tells him out of goddamn nowhere that it’s time to tie him up then it’s time to tie him the fuck up.
The rope lives on top of a forty pound bag of rock salt and under their single rolled up sleeping bag except for how right now it doesn’t. Of course. “God damn it, Dean.” Sam wants to yell but his jaw will be sporting its own fairly spectacular colorwork within the next twenty four hours so he settles for a careful mutter as he roots beneath the spare weapons duffle. Every few seconds he stretches to peer around the Impala’s raised trunk to make sure Dean’s not barreling out the door in his direction. Sam’s fairly certain that’s not going to happen but a couple of things have occurred in the last few minutes that he didn’t really see coming either. Better safe than sorry is his belated motto. He’s bent deep into the trunk, digging through a pile of old flannel shirts, when his hand closes around the knotted plastic bag tucked haphazardly inside the coil of braided rope.
“Sammy.”
“Shit!” Sam rockets upward, avoiding cracking his skull open on the heavy trunk lid by the width of his hair. His brother’s standing there, staring at him with glassy, bloodshot eyes that are maybe seventy five percent pure Dean.
“I think…” Dean’s gaze drops to his blood flecked knuckles. “I think it’s time you tied me up now.” Sam holds up the bag and Dean nods slowly. “Good,” he says. “That’s…” He sways once and is gone; dead weight crashing into Sam’s chest, almost taking them both down.
*
“The rabbit goes around the tree and through the hole...” Sam’s hands are steady on the ropes but his gaze is intent on Dean’s drooping head and closed eyes. His vigilance doesn’t go unrewarded when Dean snickers.
“You need to do a whole lot better job at this than you do tying your shoes, Sammy. C’mon, now. I could be dangerous, here. Time to tie me up. Get a move on before I wake up and kick your ass.”
“You’re already awake, jerk.” Sam’s fingers pick up their pace, though. Dean has never given him less than ten minutes to get his knots tight but he’s been warned again and again that a real bad guy won’t just sit there and pretend to be unconscious the way his big brother will.
*
“Hey!”
“What?” Sam yells back, poking his head around the shower curtain as his brother begins to pound on the flimsy bathroom door.
“Better not. Not. Better not be using all the…the… hot water in there. Bitch.”
Sam blows out a bubbling breath and ducks his head beneath the lukewarm spray. Dean’s only been gone a little over an hour. If he’s drunk enough to actually sound drunk he must have been pouring the hard stuff down his throat by the bucket full. Squirting the last of Dean’s shampoo into his palm he lathers up his tangled mane, digging his fingers into his scalp in a vain effort to massage away the aching throb that’s beginning to pulse at the base of his skull.
The door rattles a few times before it bangs open against the wall. Sam doesn’t peek around the curtain this time. He’s usually good about letting Dean have his privacy. Dean doesn’t return the favor often.
“So f-fuckin’ cold in here, Sammy.”
“It’s, like, ninety seven degrees out Dean. Eighty seven in here with the crap ass air conditioning this unit has. Isn’t that why you went out to the bar?” Sam keeps the disapproval out of his voice, but only just. “So, and I quote, you wouldn’t fucking melt?”
Dean mutters something indistinct, but more than likely profane and clomps back into the other room. There’s a thud and a muffled son of a bitch as he collides with the doorframe on his way through. Sam finishes rinsing and turns off the taps. He’d used mostly cold water so there’s plenty of hot left for Dean if he actually decides he wants to melt.
It’s the work of a few minutes to towel dry and Sam slips into clean boxers and a tee shirt. He grimaces as he step/hops around the toilet to avoid the result of Dean’s lack of eye/hand coordination. “Fucking gross, dude!” Unsurprisingly, Dean doesn’t answer.
Sam rockets through the doorway, ready to tear his brother a new one for almost making his nice, clean feet step in piss. Dean’s spread out on his bed, arms and legs akimbo. He’s not seeing anything through his tightly squeezed eyelids and headphones cover his ears. The bed’s quivering and Sam rolls his eyes. Eighty seven degrees and Dean’s still wearing his jacket, rocking the freakin’ Magic Fingers. Sam pulls the covers off his own bed and falls onto the bare sheets. He’s asleep within minutes, the last niggling thought as he descends into darkness that he didn’t think this room had Magic Fingers.
*
“Again.”
“Dad…”
“Again, Sam.” John’s voice is unyielding.
Sam’s gaze strays to Dean who just shrugs wearily. Sam’s already tried to take him down five times and five times Dean’s come out on top. At fifteen and nineteen there’s no more pretend. Sam knows the dangers now, has to learn how to subdue an attacker and restrain him…it. After having a ringside seat to his father’s training sessions with Dean, he’s just happy it’s his brother kicking his ass instead of the old man. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on Dean’s cheeks, a glaze of fever in his eyes and Sam’s just a hair quicker in his counterblow the next time Dean comes at him. Sam comes down hard on Dean’s back, already winding the ropes around Dean’s pinned hands. Dean flails and bucks beneath him but Sam’s got leverage and his brother’s hogtied in no time.
“Not bad,” John says as Sam scuttles away to a safe distance. He’s already moving to untie Dean, cupping his palm over his eldest’s forehead. “Hit the showers, tiger. Then bed.”
Dean looks like he’s going to protest but he goes, giving Sam an approving nudge with his shoulder on the way by. “Next time...” he says with a small grin.
John stops Sam’s triumphant victory dance in its tracks. “Most monsters aren’t going to be running a fever when you try to take them down. Also, probably won’t give you six chances.” He eyes Sam for a moment then nods. “There might still be a couple of moves I haven’t shown you yet.” He tosses Sam the rope. “Again.”
*
When Sam wakes it’s already oppressively hot even with just faint rays of sunshine peeking through the blinds. His mouth could give Death Valley a run for its money in the “it’s really, really, arid here, like no moisture anywhere” sweepstakes. There’s a muffled high pitched sound coming from behind him and he rolls over, ready to chuck a pillow at his brother for making such an annoying noise so early in the morning. The feathered missile bounces off a mounded cocoon of blankets and Sam sits bolt upright, fighting off a nauseating head rush from the heat.
“Dean?” Sam rolls out of bed, two quick knee steps bringing him to his brother’s side. The blankets are moving, thank god, jittering faintly to the same rhythm Dean had been vibrating on last night. Without Magic Fingers. Sam’s brain catches up. “Fuck.”
Sam excavates under the pile of covers, shuddering when his hand encounters his brother’s sweat drenched hair. The blankets are wrapped around Dean haphazardly and Sam unravels them like a puzzle until Dean’s entire body is exposed. He’s huddled on his side, still wearing his leather jacket and boots, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around his torso. Even in the baking hot room, the heat radiating off Dean is impressive.
“Dean.” Sam grips his brother’s chin and gives it a little shake. “Hey, man, you with me?”
Dean jerks out of Sam’s grasp, the keening sound louder now without any blankets between it and the open air. “D’n touch me, mo..motherfucker.”
“You’re burning up.” Sam reaches to unlace Dean’s boots before ducking to the side, easily avoiding his brother’s uncoordinated kick.
“No. No.” Dean’s panting the words out but from the way the cords in his neck are bulging, Sam’s sure he’d be bringing the whole motel down on them plus a patrol car full of cops if he had the strength for a tiny bit more volume. A hand clamped around Dean’s calf is enough to hold it still while Sam works off one boot then the other, followed by his socks. The jeans are a different story. Sam gets no further than unfastening the snap before Dean twists away, scrambling weakly for the edge of the bed. Twisting his fingers through Dean’s belt loops Sam hangs on, almost effortlessly keeping Dean in place. It’s a few minutes before the struggles cease and Dean wilts, both hands clenched in the comforter, face buried in the sheets.
“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam says, shaken by Dean’s struggles. “We gotta cool you down, get you wet and that means bare skin.” It’s hard, one handed, to tug the jeans down but Sam’s got the fingers of his left hand working to hold worn boxers in place until the denim is squelching below his brother’s knees. Sam pulls the soaked pants off and tosses them in the vicinity of the boots. “Look, dude. Your modesty is preserved.”
The jacket comes off easily. Sam just flips it over Dean’s head and slides it down his arms. The flannel shirt follows suit. Sam never stops talking as he slides his hand under his brother’s shoulder, levering him into a sitting position and balancing him as he slumps forward.
“One more layer then we can start icing you down.” The t-shirt is plastered to Dean’s body, dripping liquid where Sam’s hand is clenched in the dark material. Warm droplets fall from above onto Sam’s arm and he realizes in horror that tears are running with the sweat down Dean’s face.
“Fu’ you,” Dean whispers, lifting his head to bare his teeth at Sam, his face a horrifying mashup of rage and fear. “Jus’ leave me…fu’ you, I won’t.”
Sam slowly takes his hand away because wherever his brother is it isn’t here in this motel room. “Okay,” he says softly, lowering Dean back to the mattress. “You hang onto that. I’m going to get some cold towels and then I’m going to get some ice. You’re going to be fine in no time.”
“Already too…” Dean stops and stares at something beyond Sam. He bares his teeth and snarls. “Bring it on.”
Sam glances over his shoulder as he heads to the bathroom. Even in his weakened state a delirious Dean can’t be counted on to stay where you leave him. Dean’s flat on his back, pressed against the mattress like a giant hand is holding him down and Sam’s heart stutters. “Christo,” he says sharply but Dean’s eyes remain resolutely green, hard and defiant and locked on something Sam can’t even imagine.
The water runs cold and strong and Sam’s hands shake as he drops towel after towel in the sink to sop it up. Dean doesn’t get sick, that’s the thing. Not like this. Not without help.
*
“For fuck’s sake, Sam, hurry up!” John’s voice is rough with strain as he yells for his youngest from inside the cabin.
Sam hurries with his bag full of rope and handcuffs and zip ties. When he bursts through the door his father has already wrestled Dean into a chair.
“Dad, he’s sick! We should put him on the bed.”
Dean’s face is flushed with heat and he glares at Sam with dark, empty eyes. “Yeah, Sammy, we should take a nap,” he growls, throwing himself backwards and nearly breaking John’s grip.
“Rope, Sam, now.”
Sam darts forward staying to the side, well out of the reach of Dean’s heavy boots. John’s got Dean’s arms pinned at the elbows and Sam slams Dean’s wrist onto the arm of the heavy chair and fastens his knot in a time that meets with even his father’s approval. He scuttles around the back of the chair and ties the other arm down in the same manner. He glances doubtfully at Dean’s feet- at the footwear that could put his nose through the back of his skull. At the calves that could crush his trachea in a heartbeat.
John follows Sam’s look and huffs softly. “We’ll just leave those be for the time being.”
“Smart move,” Dean says and Sam flinches back from the cold tone.
“Dad.” Sam swallows. “Will he be okay?”
“Oh, I’ll be fine, Sammy.” Dean grins. “You’re the one that’ll have his insides on his outside when I’m done. I’m gonna…”
John slings a length of cloth over Dean’s head, hooking it into his mouth and pulling it tight. “Don’t need to be listening to that all night,” he says to Sam. “He’ll be fine. I called Bobby and the bebok venom’s got to work through his system. Not going to be fun, for him or for us, but he’ll be fine.”
Two hours later, Dean begins to convulse, fever burning as the venom pulses like magma through his veins. Halfway through the night he loses consciousness and John moves him to the bed, fastening his wrists tightly to the headboard.
“Get his feet, Sam.”
“Dad, he’s out.” Sam pauses, one hand resting on Dean’s ankle. “Can’t we just…?”
The kick sends Sam flying backwards and he hits the wall hard, smothering a cry as something gives way in his rib cage. John throws himself over Dean’s legs.
“Get. His. Feet.”
Sam groans and staggers back to the bed, looping the rope around Dean’s ankles and pulling it tight before tying it to the thickest part of the footboard. One arm wraps around his chest as he looks sidelong at his father. John shakes his head, lips tight, but he wraps Sam’s ribs before settling down at Dean’s bedside with the shotgun held loose and easy in his hands.
“Towels soaked in holy water and keep them coming.”
Sam spends the rest of the night wetting towels to cool Dean’s too hot flesh and in the morning when his brother’s clear eyed and eyeing Sam in dismay, Sam spins a tale of Dean saving his ass after the bebok slammed him into a tree.
*
Sam splashes Dean with holy water and dribbles some into his mouth. He paints sigils on his brother with consecrated oil and cuts a small line on his forearm with a silver knife. Dean reacts to none of it.
“Know you’re not…he’s not…I won’t….”
Sam faces the fact that Dean is actually sick, but god it came on fast. He’d seemed fine when he left for the bar. Sam stops and backtracks a little. Dean really hadn’t looked fine. He’d looked like a man that had been subsisting on nothing but grease and hard liquor for months. His body’s defenses had been lowered and something hit him like a bull moose. Sam blinks and backtracks a little more. Dean’s body might not even have defenses any more. Had the angels thought to fine tune his immune system? Or had that started from scratch like everything else? Fuck. Sam wraps ice in wet towels and packs them around his brother’s body. Dean swallowed the holy water so Sam gently lifts Dean’s head and holds a glass to his lips. Dean sucks down the icy water eagerly and Sam breathes a sigh of relief. He really didn’t want to start an I.V. when Dean was this out of it. He slips a couple of Tylenol between Dean’s lips and holds the glass up again. Dean swallows and Sam lowers him back to the mattress.
There’s no gratitude in Dean’s face, just stubborn determination. “Y’ can’t bribe…I know…I won’t…” He arches back suddenly on the bed, mouth wide in a silent scream.
Sam’s heart races as he watches Dean writhe in imagined agony. He’s pretty sure his brother’s subconscious remembers hell just fine even if Dean claims his memory was wiped. He grips Dean’s hand, tries to talk him through it but it goes on and on until Dean collapses into unconsciousness.
Dean alternates between terrified delusions and blessed oblivion and Sam watches the hours crawl by as he makes trip after trip to the ice machine. When Dean’s awake Sam gets as much fluid into him as he can and when Dean’s out he rests his eyes. Just for a few minutes. Sam starts awake with Dean’s hand on his knee.
“S’mmy. I know you’re not…not really…but please, man. I can’t. It’s too close…I can’t. I’m gonna… I think…I think you should tie me up now.” Dean’s eyes flick behind Sam but there’s no determination in them, only defeat.
Sam puts a palm on Dean’s forehead. The skin is still overly hot and Sam grips Dean’s hand in his own. “It’s okay, Dean. It’s going to be okay.”
Dean shakes his head and murmurs, “Please,” and then he’s out again. Sam’s still holding his brother’s hand when he drifts off to sleep.
Pure instinct wakes Sam next time. Something that isn’t his brother is staring out of Dean’s eyes and there’s a fist about to connect with Sam’s face. Sam rocks backward with the punch but Dean is on him, pitching the chair over and landing heavily on top of Sam.
“Warned you.” Dean’s breath is hot in Sam’s ear. Another blow connects with Sam’s chin. “Always listen to big brother.”
Dean’s grin is feral, his face almost unrecognizable. Even the bebok hadn’t turned Dean into something this dangerous and Sam gets a desperate arm against Dean’s chest and heaves him off. Dean scrambles to his hands and knees but Sam’s up now too and whatever Dean’s mind has convinced him is going on, his body is still in this reality and Sam’s definitely got the advantage there. Dean growls and tries to clamber to his feet but his knees buckle as his eyes roll into his head and he collapses back into unconsciousness.
*
Sam’s had enough practical experience that his knots are as good as anybody’s now. And Dean’s secured, hand and foot, as soon as Sam gets them back to the room. Dean’s out for a while, but when he comes to the monster is out in force. The wet towels keep coming, Dean’s fever is coming down but it’s still way above normal. Sam tries not to listen to the evil spilling out of his brother’s mouth, eventually gagging him to stop the nauseating images Dean’s words bring forth.
Hours pass and Sam’s shaking with exhaustion. He tests Dean’s bonds, already sure they’ll hold. If the slats of the bed were going to give way they would have in the face of Dean’s violent struggles to break free. Sam stretches out on the other bed, the last view as his eyelids slip closed his brother’s murderous glare.
*
Sam wakes again to sunlight through the blinds and muffled noises from the other bed. He cracks open crusty eyelids to see Dean staring back at him. Now, though, his gaze is watchful and wary instead of homicidal. Rolling out of bed with a groan, Sam pads to the bathroom, sending an apologetic glance his brother’s way. No way can he deal with this with a full bladder. Dean’s muffled indignation follows him through the door. When Sam comes out he sets the chair upright and drops down into it, returning Dean’s wary look. He can’t quite make out Dean’s indistinct growl, but his brother’s eyes are screaming “what the fuck, Sam!”
Sam picks up a knife and holds it up. Dean’s eyes go wide and he stills as Sam leans forward and slides the blade between the gag and Dean’s cheek.
Dean spits out the wad of cloth with a disgusted snort and shifts within his nest of wet, warm towels. “Seriously, Sam. What the fuck?”
“Dean?” Sam reaches out to touch Dean’s forearm, out of the reach of his teeth. The skin is cool to the touch and Sam lets out a long breath.
“Yeah?” Dean tugs at his restraints and blinks tiredly at his brother. Sam can see Dean take note of the bruises decorating his face. “So. Rough night?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“I can see that.” Dean pulls harder at the ropes. “Wanna explain why I’m tied up? Or better yet, fucking untie me?”
“You were sick, Dean.” Sam’s watching his brother’s face carefully. “I mean really sick, like delirious. I had to tie you up so you wouldn’t hurt yourself.”
“Hurt myself?” Dean’s lips tighten. “Or hurt you?”
Sam grins and winces as he rubs his sore chin. “Maybe a little of both?”
“Why? I mean, what did I think I was fighting?”
Sam stares at Dean earnestly. “I don’t know,” he lies through his teeth. “But whatever it was, you sure wanted to take it down.”
“But you took me down instead?” Dean’s lips curl up in his pale face. “Lucky I was sick, bro. And you finally got a decent knot tied? Nice going, Sam.”
“Well, I learned from the best.” Sam grins back at his brother.
“You know what else you learned from the best? How to untie a fucking knot. Let me up, Sam.”
Sam’s a smart guy. Well trained even. He can turn the worst fucked up situation into a learning experience. He also knows what he knows and he’s got a doctorate in the subject of his brother. Dean’s hiding something but it’s not a buried desire to rip his brother to shreds with his teeth. Sam’s could untie the knots, but Dean, and this is one hundred percent Dean, is not going to have to wait that long. Sam leans forward, well within Dean’s reach, and cuts his brother loose.
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG
Summary: A feverish Dean gives Sam all he can handle.
Word count: 3770
Warnings: Very vague hints of a possible past sexual assault. Post Hell Trauma.
Author's note: Written for this year's summergen challenge.
Sam’s a smart guy. Well trained describes him pretty accurately too. In fact, one of the first things his father ever taught him was how to turn a bad situation into a learning experience. Sam winces as the developing shiner around his left eye gives a vicious throb. What he’s learned from this particular bad situation is that when his brother tells him out of goddamn nowhere that it’s time to tie him up then it’s time to tie him the fuck up.
The rope lives on top of a forty pound bag of rock salt and under their single rolled up sleeping bag except for how right now it doesn’t. Of course. “God damn it, Dean.” Sam wants to yell but his jaw will be sporting its own fairly spectacular colorwork within the next twenty four hours so he settles for a careful mutter as he roots beneath the spare weapons duffle. Every few seconds he stretches to peer around the Impala’s raised trunk to make sure Dean’s not barreling out the door in his direction. Sam’s fairly certain that’s not going to happen but a couple of things have occurred in the last few minutes that he didn’t really see coming either. Better safe than sorry is his belated motto. He’s bent deep into the trunk, digging through a pile of old flannel shirts, when his hand closes around the knotted plastic bag tucked haphazardly inside the coil of braided rope.
“Sammy.”
“Shit!” Sam rockets upward, avoiding cracking his skull open on the heavy trunk lid by the width of his hair. His brother’s standing there, staring at him with glassy, bloodshot eyes that are maybe seventy five percent pure Dean.
“I think…” Dean’s gaze drops to his blood flecked knuckles. “I think it’s time you tied me up now.” Sam holds up the bag and Dean nods slowly. “Good,” he says. “That’s…” He sways once and is gone; dead weight crashing into Sam’s chest, almost taking them both down.
*
“The rabbit goes around the tree and through the hole...” Sam’s hands are steady on the ropes but his gaze is intent on Dean’s drooping head and closed eyes. His vigilance doesn’t go unrewarded when Dean snickers.
“You need to do a whole lot better job at this than you do tying your shoes, Sammy. C’mon, now. I could be dangerous, here. Time to tie me up. Get a move on before I wake up and kick your ass.”
“You’re already awake, jerk.” Sam’s fingers pick up their pace, though. Dean has never given him less than ten minutes to get his knots tight but he’s been warned again and again that a real bad guy won’t just sit there and pretend to be unconscious the way his big brother will.
*
“Hey!”
“What?” Sam yells back, poking his head around the shower curtain as his brother begins to pound on the flimsy bathroom door.
“Better not. Not. Better not be using all the…the… hot water in there. Bitch.”
Sam blows out a bubbling breath and ducks his head beneath the lukewarm spray. Dean’s only been gone a little over an hour. If he’s drunk enough to actually sound drunk he must have been pouring the hard stuff down his throat by the bucket full. Squirting the last of Dean’s shampoo into his palm he lathers up his tangled mane, digging his fingers into his scalp in a vain effort to massage away the aching throb that’s beginning to pulse at the base of his skull.
The door rattles a few times before it bangs open against the wall. Sam doesn’t peek around the curtain this time. He’s usually good about letting Dean have his privacy. Dean doesn’t return the favor often.
“So f-fuckin’ cold in here, Sammy.”
“It’s, like, ninety seven degrees out Dean. Eighty seven in here with the crap ass air conditioning this unit has. Isn’t that why you went out to the bar?” Sam keeps the disapproval out of his voice, but only just. “So, and I quote, you wouldn’t fucking melt?”
Dean mutters something indistinct, but more than likely profane and clomps back into the other room. There’s a thud and a muffled son of a bitch as he collides with the doorframe on his way through. Sam finishes rinsing and turns off the taps. He’d used mostly cold water so there’s plenty of hot left for Dean if he actually decides he wants to melt.
It’s the work of a few minutes to towel dry and Sam slips into clean boxers and a tee shirt. He grimaces as he step/hops around the toilet to avoid the result of Dean’s lack of eye/hand coordination. “Fucking gross, dude!” Unsurprisingly, Dean doesn’t answer.
Sam rockets through the doorway, ready to tear his brother a new one for almost making his nice, clean feet step in piss. Dean’s spread out on his bed, arms and legs akimbo. He’s not seeing anything through his tightly squeezed eyelids and headphones cover his ears. The bed’s quivering and Sam rolls his eyes. Eighty seven degrees and Dean’s still wearing his jacket, rocking the freakin’ Magic Fingers. Sam pulls the covers off his own bed and falls onto the bare sheets. He’s asleep within minutes, the last niggling thought as he descends into darkness that he didn’t think this room had Magic Fingers.
*
“Again.”
“Dad…”
“Again, Sam.” John’s voice is unyielding.
Sam’s gaze strays to Dean who just shrugs wearily. Sam’s already tried to take him down five times and five times Dean’s come out on top. At fifteen and nineteen there’s no more pretend. Sam knows the dangers now, has to learn how to subdue an attacker and restrain him…it. After having a ringside seat to his father’s training sessions with Dean, he’s just happy it’s his brother kicking his ass instead of the old man. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on Dean’s cheeks, a glaze of fever in his eyes and Sam’s just a hair quicker in his counterblow the next time Dean comes at him. Sam comes down hard on Dean’s back, already winding the ropes around Dean’s pinned hands. Dean flails and bucks beneath him but Sam’s got leverage and his brother’s hogtied in no time.
“Not bad,” John says as Sam scuttles away to a safe distance. He’s already moving to untie Dean, cupping his palm over his eldest’s forehead. “Hit the showers, tiger. Then bed.”
Dean looks like he’s going to protest but he goes, giving Sam an approving nudge with his shoulder on the way by. “Next time...” he says with a small grin.
John stops Sam’s triumphant victory dance in its tracks. “Most monsters aren’t going to be running a fever when you try to take them down. Also, probably won’t give you six chances.” He eyes Sam for a moment then nods. “There might still be a couple of moves I haven’t shown you yet.” He tosses Sam the rope. “Again.”
*
When Sam wakes it’s already oppressively hot even with just faint rays of sunshine peeking through the blinds. His mouth could give Death Valley a run for its money in the “it’s really, really, arid here, like no moisture anywhere” sweepstakes. There’s a muffled high pitched sound coming from behind him and he rolls over, ready to chuck a pillow at his brother for making such an annoying noise so early in the morning. The feathered missile bounces off a mounded cocoon of blankets and Sam sits bolt upright, fighting off a nauseating head rush from the heat.
“Dean?” Sam rolls out of bed, two quick knee steps bringing him to his brother’s side. The blankets are moving, thank god, jittering faintly to the same rhythm Dean had been vibrating on last night. Without Magic Fingers. Sam’s brain catches up. “Fuck.”
Sam excavates under the pile of covers, shuddering when his hand encounters his brother’s sweat drenched hair. The blankets are wrapped around Dean haphazardly and Sam unravels them like a puzzle until Dean’s entire body is exposed. He’s huddled on his side, still wearing his leather jacket and boots, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around his torso. Even in the baking hot room, the heat radiating off Dean is impressive.
“Dean.” Sam grips his brother’s chin and gives it a little shake. “Hey, man, you with me?”
Dean jerks out of Sam’s grasp, the keening sound louder now without any blankets between it and the open air. “D’n touch me, mo..motherfucker.”
“You’re burning up.” Sam reaches to unlace Dean’s boots before ducking to the side, easily avoiding his brother’s uncoordinated kick.
“No. No.” Dean’s panting the words out but from the way the cords in his neck are bulging, Sam’s sure he’d be bringing the whole motel down on them plus a patrol car full of cops if he had the strength for a tiny bit more volume. A hand clamped around Dean’s calf is enough to hold it still while Sam works off one boot then the other, followed by his socks. The jeans are a different story. Sam gets no further than unfastening the snap before Dean twists away, scrambling weakly for the edge of the bed. Twisting his fingers through Dean’s belt loops Sam hangs on, almost effortlessly keeping Dean in place. It’s a few minutes before the struggles cease and Dean wilts, both hands clenched in the comforter, face buried in the sheets.
“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam says, shaken by Dean’s struggles. “We gotta cool you down, get you wet and that means bare skin.” It’s hard, one handed, to tug the jeans down but Sam’s got the fingers of his left hand working to hold worn boxers in place until the denim is squelching below his brother’s knees. Sam pulls the soaked pants off and tosses them in the vicinity of the boots. “Look, dude. Your modesty is preserved.”
The jacket comes off easily. Sam just flips it over Dean’s head and slides it down his arms. The flannel shirt follows suit. Sam never stops talking as he slides his hand under his brother’s shoulder, levering him into a sitting position and balancing him as he slumps forward.
“One more layer then we can start icing you down.” The t-shirt is plastered to Dean’s body, dripping liquid where Sam’s hand is clenched in the dark material. Warm droplets fall from above onto Sam’s arm and he realizes in horror that tears are running with the sweat down Dean’s face.
“Fu’ you,” Dean whispers, lifting his head to bare his teeth at Sam, his face a horrifying mashup of rage and fear. “Jus’ leave me…fu’ you, I won’t.”
Sam slowly takes his hand away because wherever his brother is it isn’t here in this motel room. “Okay,” he says softly, lowering Dean back to the mattress. “You hang onto that. I’m going to get some cold towels and then I’m going to get some ice. You’re going to be fine in no time.”
“Already too…” Dean stops and stares at something beyond Sam. He bares his teeth and snarls. “Bring it on.”
Sam glances over his shoulder as he heads to the bathroom. Even in his weakened state a delirious Dean can’t be counted on to stay where you leave him. Dean’s flat on his back, pressed against the mattress like a giant hand is holding him down and Sam’s heart stutters. “Christo,” he says sharply but Dean’s eyes remain resolutely green, hard and defiant and locked on something Sam can’t even imagine.
The water runs cold and strong and Sam’s hands shake as he drops towel after towel in the sink to sop it up. Dean doesn’t get sick, that’s the thing. Not like this. Not without help.
*
“For fuck’s sake, Sam, hurry up!” John’s voice is rough with strain as he yells for his youngest from inside the cabin.
Sam hurries with his bag full of rope and handcuffs and zip ties. When he bursts through the door his father has already wrestled Dean into a chair.
“Dad, he’s sick! We should put him on the bed.”
Dean’s face is flushed with heat and he glares at Sam with dark, empty eyes. “Yeah, Sammy, we should take a nap,” he growls, throwing himself backwards and nearly breaking John’s grip.
“Rope, Sam, now.”
Sam darts forward staying to the side, well out of the reach of Dean’s heavy boots. John’s got Dean’s arms pinned at the elbows and Sam slams Dean’s wrist onto the arm of the heavy chair and fastens his knot in a time that meets with even his father’s approval. He scuttles around the back of the chair and ties the other arm down in the same manner. He glances doubtfully at Dean’s feet- at the footwear that could put his nose through the back of his skull. At the calves that could crush his trachea in a heartbeat.
John follows Sam’s look and huffs softly. “We’ll just leave those be for the time being.”
“Smart move,” Dean says and Sam flinches back from the cold tone.
“Dad.” Sam swallows. “Will he be okay?”
“Oh, I’ll be fine, Sammy.” Dean grins. “You’re the one that’ll have his insides on his outside when I’m done. I’m gonna…”
John slings a length of cloth over Dean’s head, hooking it into his mouth and pulling it tight. “Don’t need to be listening to that all night,” he says to Sam. “He’ll be fine. I called Bobby and the bebok venom’s got to work through his system. Not going to be fun, for him or for us, but he’ll be fine.”
Two hours later, Dean begins to convulse, fever burning as the venom pulses like magma through his veins. Halfway through the night he loses consciousness and John moves him to the bed, fastening his wrists tightly to the headboard.
“Get his feet, Sam.”
“Dad, he’s out.” Sam pauses, one hand resting on Dean’s ankle. “Can’t we just…?”
The kick sends Sam flying backwards and he hits the wall hard, smothering a cry as something gives way in his rib cage. John throws himself over Dean’s legs.
“Get. His. Feet.”
Sam groans and staggers back to the bed, looping the rope around Dean’s ankles and pulling it tight before tying it to the thickest part of the footboard. One arm wraps around his chest as he looks sidelong at his father. John shakes his head, lips tight, but he wraps Sam’s ribs before settling down at Dean’s bedside with the shotgun held loose and easy in his hands.
“Towels soaked in holy water and keep them coming.”
Sam spends the rest of the night wetting towels to cool Dean’s too hot flesh and in the morning when his brother’s clear eyed and eyeing Sam in dismay, Sam spins a tale of Dean saving his ass after the bebok slammed him into a tree.
*
Sam splashes Dean with holy water and dribbles some into his mouth. He paints sigils on his brother with consecrated oil and cuts a small line on his forearm with a silver knife. Dean reacts to none of it.
“Know you’re not…he’s not…I won’t….”
Sam faces the fact that Dean is actually sick, but god it came on fast. He’d seemed fine when he left for the bar. Sam stops and backtracks a little. Dean really hadn’t looked fine. He’d looked like a man that had been subsisting on nothing but grease and hard liquor for months. His body’s defenses had been lowered and something hit him like a bull moose. Sam blinks and backtracks a little more. Dean’s body might not even have defenses any more. Had the angels thought to fine tune his immune system? Or had that started from scratch like everything else? Fuck. Sam wraps ice in wet towels and packs them around his brother’s body. Dean swallowed the holy water so Sam gently lifts Dean’s head and holds a glass to his lips. Dean sucks down the icy water eagerly and Sam breathes a sigh of relief. He really didn’t want to start an I.V. when Dean was this out of it. He slips a couple of Tylenol between Dean’s lips and holds the glass up again. Dean swallows and Sam lowers him back to the mattress.
There’s no gratitude in Dean’s face, just stubborn determination. “Y’ can’t bribe…I know…I won’t…” He arches back suddenly on the bed, mouth wide in a silent scream.
Sam’s heart races as he watches Dean writhe in imagined agony. He’s pretty sure his brother’s subconscious remembers hell just fine even if Dean claims his memory was wiped. He grips Dean’s hand, tries to talk him through it but it goes on and on until Dean collapses into unconsciousness.
Dean alternates between terrified delusions and blessed oblivion and Sam watches the hours crawl by as he makes trip after trip to the ice machine. When Dean’s awake Sam gets as much fluid into him as he can and when Dean’s out he rests his eyes. Just for a few minutes. Sam starts awake with Dean’s hand on his knee.
“S’mmy. I know you’re not…not really…but please, man. I can’t. It’s too close…I can’t. I’m gonna… I think…I think you should tie me up now.” Dean’s eyes flick behind Sam but there’s no determination in them, only defeat.
Sam puts a palm on Dean’s forehead. The skin is still overly hot and Sam grips Dean’s hand in his own. “It’s okay, Dean. It’s going to be okay.”
Dean shakes his head and murmurs, “Please,” and then he’s out again. Sam’s still holding his brother’s hand when he drifts off to sleep.
Pure instinct wakes Sam next time. Something that isn’t his brother is staring out of Dean’s eyes and there’s a fist about to connect with Sam’s face. Sam rocks backward with the punch but Dean is on him, pitching the chair over and landing heavily on top of Sam.
“Warned you.” Dean’s breath is hot in Sam’s ear. Another blow connects with Sam’s chin. “Always listen to big brother.”
Dean’s grin is feral, his face almost unrecognizable. Even the bebok hadn’t turned Dean into something this dangerous and Sam gets a desperate arm against Dean’s chest and heaves him off. Dean scrambles to his hands and knees but Sam’s up now too and whatever Dean’s mind has convinced him is going on, his body is still in this reality and Sam’s definitely got the advantage there. Dean growls and tries to clamber to his feet but his knees buckle as his eyes roll into his head and he collapses back into unconsciousness.
*
Sam’s had enough practical experience that his knots are as good as anybody’s now. And Dean’s secured, hand and foot, as soon as Sam gets them back to the room. Dean’s out for a while, but when he comes to the monster is out in force. The wet towels keep coming, Dean’s fever is coming down but it’s still way above normal. Sam tries not to listen to the evil spilling out of his brother’s mouth, eventually gagging him to stop the nauseating images Dean’s words bring forth.
Hours pass and Sam’s shaking with exhaustion. He tests Dean’s bonds, already sure they’ll hold. If the slats of the bed were going to give way they would have in the face of Dean’s violent struggles to break free. Sam stretches out on the other bed, the last view as his eyelids slip closed his brother’s murderous glare.
*
Sam wakes again to sunlight through the blinds and muffled noises from the other bed. He cracks open crusty eyelids to see Dean staring back at him. Now, though, his gaze is watchful and wary instead of homicidal. Rolling out of bed with a groan, Sam pads to the bathroom, sending an apologetic glance his brother’s way. No way can he deal with this with a full bladder. Dean’s muffled indignation follows him through the door. When Sam comes out he sets the chair upright and drops down into it, returning Dean’s wary look. He can’t quite make out Dean’s indistinct growl, but his brother’s eyes are screaming “what the fuck, Sam!”
Sam picks up a knife and holds it up. Dean’s eyes go wide and he stills as Sam leans forward and slides the blade between the gag and Dean’s cheek.
Dean spits out the wad of cloth with a disgusted snort and shifts within his nest of wet, warm towels. “Seriously, Sam. What the fuck?”
“Dean?” Sam reaches out to touch Dean’s forearm, out of the reach of his teeth. The skin is cool to the touch and Sam lets out a long breath.
“Yeah?” Dean tugs at his restraints and blinks tiredly at his brother. Sam can see Dean take note of the bruises decorating his face. “So. Rough night?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“I can see that.” Dean pulls harder at the ropes. “Wanna explain why I’m tied up? Or better yet, fucking untie me?”
“You were sick, Dean.” Sam’s watching his brother’s face carefully. “I mean really sick, like delirious. I had to tie you up so you wouldn’t hurt yourself.”
“Hurt myself?” Dean’s lips tighten. “Or hurt you?”
Sam grins and winces as he rubs his sore chin. “Maybe a little of both?”
“Why? I mean, what did I think I was fighting?”
Sam stares at Dean earnestly. “I don’t know,” he lies through his teeth. “But whatever it was, you sure wanted to take it down.”
“But you took me down instead?” Dean’s lips curl up in his pale face. “Lucky I was sick, bro. And you finally got a decent knot tied? Nice going, Sam.”
“Well, I learned from the best.” Sam grins back at his brother.
“You know what else you learned from the best? How to untie a fucking knot. Let me up, Sam.”
Sam’s a smart guy. Well trained even. He can turn the worst fucked up situation into a learning experience. He also knows what he knows and he’s got a doctorate in the subject of his brother. Dean’s hiding something but it’s not a buried desire to rip his brother to shreds with his teeth. Sam’s could untie the knots, but Dean, and this is one hundred percent Dean, is not going to have to wait that long. Sam leans forward, well within Dean’s reach, and cuts his brother loose.